


Kamikaze Love

by thisismydesignn



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Pining, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who are you without him?" Coulson had asked, and Ward still isn't sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kamikaze Love

**Author's Note:**

> I'm...not entirely sure what this is. I wanted to write something new involving Ward/Garrett, and this just kind of went all over the place, but I hope it's worth a read anyhow. Lots of run-ons, italics, parentheses, references to show dialogue, et cetera + title from Poets of the Fall's song of the same name.

John Garrett taught Grant Ward many things.

How to make a thousand-yard shot. ( _Two thousand, actually._ ) How to deceive everyone around him with a disarming smile, feigned interest, lies that linger just on the edge of truth.

How to open his veins with no more than a sheet of paper, a button, and the last shreds of his determination.

(He’s distantly aware of bright lights, muffled shouts through a haze of pain, fading consciousness and above all, _relief_.)  
  


* * *

  
It doesn’t last.

He’s back in the cell—the _cage_ —before he can process what’s happened, hands empty, skin intact. Mostly.

He runs his fingers over the scars, reflects on yet another failure, another _weakness._ The voice in his head isn’t his own, his brother’s, his parents’—it’s Garrett’s, vicious and cheerful as it tells him _if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again_.

(Pain explodes behind his eyes, stunning, blinding, as blood trickles down from his scalp. The lights are back, the shouts muted beneath the ringing in his ears, and once again he knows he’s failed.)

* * *

_  
Who are you without him?_

This time it’s Coulson’s voice he hears, because it’s not a question he’s ever asked himself—not a question he ever thought he’d _have_ to ask. But as he slips back into unconsciousness, out of his control, against his will, it rises to the surface once more, and all he can do is remember.

* * *

_  
Coulson is a good man. Someone who’d lay down his life for you. Don’t you owe a man like that something?_

_Sure. But I owe Garrett everything._

The first few weeks on his own are, well. ‘Rough’ would probably be an understatement. But he thinks of Garrett’s words (every second of every day, _weak, worthless_ ), remembers that first glimmer of _hope_ he’d felt at the man’s offer, and pulls himself together. He has to believe that Garrett will return, that he hasn’t made the worst mistake of his life, because the alternative—the alternative is unthinkable.

Garrett returns, and for the first time, Grant feels anything but worthless.

Soon he’s more at home with a gun in his hands than without, more comfortable with silence than the white noise of persistent, pointless chatter. He’s more content, _better_ on his own than with any human being—with the possible exception of John. Ward is good at what he does, _very_ good, and the look of pride on Garrett’s face after each success is reward enough. (After all, he knows who he has to thank for finally— _finally_ —showing him who he was always meant to be.)

But it’s more than gratitude, he thinks, that sets his gaze wandering, following his mind into the gutter as he watches Garrett undress, catches himself staring without knowing why. He always looks away quickly, cheeks flushed, eyes on the ground, but the damage is done. The images flicker back in the dead of night until he can’t help but slip his hand into his sleeping bag, biting back moans that threaten to escape, hoping like hell the sounds of rustling aren’t enough to wake Garrett. He comes quickly every time, cheeks burning with shame, fear and more than a bit of desire, anticipation of what _could_ happen with Garrett only feet away—

—and more than once, after his breathing has finally slowed, he could swear he hears a soft chuckle as Garrett rolls over, restless, the rustle of his own sleeping bag loud as a gunshot to Ward’s ears. Each time it leaves him frozen, heart racing, until exhaustion takes over; every morning, it’s as though nothing’s changed.  
  
Until.

Until the morning Grant wakes with Garrett crouched beside him, a slight smile on his face. “I was going to say rise and shine, but it looks like you’ve already got one of those taken care of…”

His gaze slips deliberately down between Ward’s legs, the sleeping bag pushed past his waist, the result of a night of tossing and turning—and, oh, it’s easy to see why. The tent in Ward’s boxers has him tugging at the sleeping bag immediately, frantically, avoiding Garrett’s gaze, but Garrett is unflinching, almost amused. “Are you gonna take care of that?”

 _That_ gets Ward’s attention, his eyes meeting Garrett’s even as he fights the urge to curl up and die. “ _Now?_ ”

Garrett shrugs. “Why not?”

Ward holds his gaze, wondering if there’s any way in hell Garrett could be serious—but he doesn’t look away, and Ward’s not going to back down from the challenge in his eyes.

(He owes him everything else. Why not this, too?)

He settles back, reaching beneath the covers, but Garrett’s grin turns predatory as he murmurs, “Gonna let me see, Grant?”

For the first time in months, Ward feels powerless.

He’s not prepared for the rush of arousal that accompanies it.

Frightened, eager, he pushes the sleeping bag past his hips; a moment of hesitation and the boxers follow, and Ward would swear Garrett’s eyes darken as he takes himself in hand.

He’s not going to last, he knows; no one else has ever touched him like this, but the way Garrett is watching him feels almost like a caress, like John’s hands are the ones between his legs, bringing him closer to the edge. He imagines it, rough hands, _experienced_ hands, tugging his cock just this side of too hard, just enough to hurt—just the way Grant likes it, and a moan slips loose before he can stop himself.

Garrett shifts, just a bit, and Ward can see that he’s hard, too; thinks _I did that_ , and another noise escapes, the edge of a whimper. His hand speeds up, and finally Garrett looks away from his cock, up to his face. That wicked smirk is back, like he _knows_ what Ward is thinking, and it’s too much, too soon: it’s only moments before Ward is coming, hips pressed up into his hand, back arched, spilling over his fingers, his stomach. He moans long and low, letting out the pent-up noises he’d held back night after night, watching beneath hooded lids as Garrett stands, adjusting himself through his jeans.

Ward sits up, not caring about the mess he’s made. He almost reaches out for Garrett, _almost_ , “Sir, I—” but Garrett stops him with a raised hand, a stern look.

“Get yourself cleaned up and come get some breakfast.”

For a moment, Ward’s terrified he’s done something wrong—too much? (Not enough?) But as Garrett reaches the entrance of the tent, he looks back, smirks, winks. Then he’s gone.

Ward falls back against his sleeping bag once more, relief and adrenaline coursing through his veins.

That night, he’s none too subtle as he watches Garrett undress, pull the turtleneck over his head, revealing skin etched with scars and metal.

This time, though, he finds Garrett staring right back.

* * *

_  
I’m a bit of a sweet-talker when I need to be. You wouldn’t believe what I could talk this son of a gun into._

_What are my orders? What do you need me to do?_

“Get on your knees,” Garrett breathes, and Ward is more than content to let him think it was his idea. ( _It’s my job to make sure Garrett gets what he wants_.) Ward kneels, looks up at him through thick lashes, innocent with just a hint of mischief—Garrett groans and presses a hand to the back of his head, undoing his own jeans with the other.

He still doesn’t let Ward touch him, not that first time. He paints his face with come, swipes a thumb across his lower lip, pressing in, but he pulls away when Ward leans forward, eager to taste. “Not yet,” Garrett tells him, and Ward knows better than to ask when.

(The answer is _soon enough_ , Garrett’s hands on Ward’s hips as he swallows him down; this time he lets Grant return the favor, kisses the taste off his lips and grins, sated.)  
  
Maybe it crosses Ward's mind—once, twice—that this isn’t normal, maybe even isn’t _right_ , but with Garrett spreading him open, tongue against Grant as he moans hysterically, it’s hard to find it anything but.

The first time he lets Garrett take him—all the way, pressing Ward against the ground, kissing him like he _means_ it—there’s no conversation about it, no _is this what you want_ , nothing. But John’s always known what Grant needs better than he does, so he kisses back, thrusts up against him like this is what he wants, what he’s wanted all along.

(Truth is, he has no fucking clue. What he wants, who he is or anything in between.) But Garrett fills that emptiness inside of him with commands, with the press of his hips and the force of his fists—and sometimes all three at once, and all Ward can say is “thank you,” watch as the hunger in Garrett’s eyes turns _(at last)_ to pride.

* * *

_  
You woke up a weakness inside me, and for the first time in a while, I wanted something for myself. Maybe I’ll just take what I want. Wake up something inside you._

_(I am not that scared kid anymore._

_Then stop acting like it. Stop being weak. All these years, and you’re still playing the victim.)_

He tries to be everything Garrett wants—and most of the time, he succeeds.

But each failure stings all the more, and each time he convinces himself he deserves it. Almost grows to enjoy the feel of John’s fist against his cheek, the bruises that bloom violently across his ribs, though the disappointment in Garrett’s eyes tempers the heat that spreads through his gut.

( _This_ , he thinks, _this I deserve_. He’s never said no before—what right does he have to start now? Yet here he is, though Garrett doesn’t seem to hear a word he's saying. Grant wonders if he’s spoken aloud at all, if he’s struggled like he _wants_ to—feels like his body is not his own, like he’s retreated back into that place of anger, of surrender, the rush of water and cruel shouts echoing distantly in his mind.)

When it’s over—Garrett pulling away quickly, as though he’s only just remembered that Ward isn’t as weak as he once was ( _but I am, always will be_ ), could fight back if he wanted, but he did want, and he couldn’t—Ward does nothing, doesn’t move, doesn’t think. Presses his face into the pillow, breathes deeply, doesn’t wonder _if I suffocated, would he even care?_  
  
“Get yourself cleaned up,” Garrett tells him, but this time there’s no smirk, no consolation prize—just his retreating back and the taste of blood on Grant’s tongue.

* * *

_  
Skye thinks I’m a monster._

_Are you? Is that your true nature? Or is that what Garrett made you to be?_

_…I don’t know._

He still doesn’t.

He remembers the physicality of it all, the way Garrett would praise him with his touch and punish him with his fists, because—because it’s _easier_.

(Then again, if the job was easy, it wouldn’t be any fun.)

That first time is still vivid in his mind, the start of something new and dangerous and thrilling in its own way. But the start of _everything_ —the escape, the abandonment, the return and all that came with it—that’s what shaped who he is, man, monster or somewhere in between, and he’s terrified to figure out which it is.

Garrett was the first to give him the tools to become a weapon, something of _use_ , something lethal. He was the first to give Ward a purpose, a meaning, a _chance_ , when his own family had written him off so quickly. He thinks of his brother, tries so hard not to—thinks of Garrett, twists even the worst moments into the best, _misses_ him, misses knowing who he was, even when he didn’t. Even if Ward wanted to lay the blame on him, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t, because the choices he made were his own—his own, like the resolve that split his skin, sent him running at the walls.

He’s been broken and remade so many times he would swear he can feel the seams in his skin, but he can count on one hand the number of times he’s liked who he’s become. The person he is on missions, the person Garrett taught him to be, that’s the version of himself he’s always liked best. He returns with bruised, torn skin, and still the pride on Garrett’s face is worth every broken bone.

(And still, he’s not sure who he is without it.)

He wakes, and he’s no closer to an answer. Back in the cell, the walls are spotless, no trace of the blood he’d felt hot against his skin. He traces the stitches in his scalp, thinks _Frankenstein’s monster,_ thinks _monster,_ clenches his fists: he wants to try again, but he won’t.

(He can’t fail again.)

Garrett was the closest he’d ever come to having a home, and all that’s left now is Grant Ward—the same lost, terrified little boy, just with sharper edges and a hungrier heart.

( _You can’t make homes out of human beings,_ he doesn’t think.)

Perhaps _she_ can be his home, or he hers; perhaps one day she’ll need him the way he needed John.

 _Perhaps_ , he thinks, because that’s all there is.

* * *

  
John Garrett taught Grant Ward many things.

How to take a life with his bare hands. How to use those same hands to _touch_ , to reduce a person to a trembling mess of desire with just a stroke of his fingertips across bare skin.

Not how to live in a world where John Garrett doesn’t exist.

The possibility had always lurked in the back of Ward’s mind, of course, but he had never let it rise to the surface. Some days, the fear was more present than others—when the attacks came more frequently, when Ward refused to leave Garrett’s side. But he always took another breath, offered another smirk, cracked another joke, and Ward could pretend that the relief flooding his veins was nothing but an overreaction.

Until that relief never came.

“Who are you without him?” Coulson had asked, and Ward still doesn’t know; knows only what Garrett made him, isn’t sure he’s ever known anything else.

Then— _at last_ —she arrives, and he knows—

He’d pushed her, threatened her, loved her the only way he’d ever been taught, and still, here she is, asking for his help. He steps as close as he can (too close, not close enough), sees the shift in her expression as she notices his scars, his failure. The look on her face is enough to make him itch for the sharp edge once more, but he steps back, turns the focus to her, to her progress, to his _pride_ , and he only hopes that it makes her feel as sick and desperate as Garrett had always made him.

He promises to tell her the truth, only the truth, for the rest of his life, but already he’s broken that promise— “When I came out of sedation, I was clear-headed, accepting. Of who I am, what I’ve done…and why.” ( _Garrett, my brother, my own damn weakness,_ but he’s nowhere near acceptance, can’t even remember how a clear mind feels.)

Still, he tells Skye, “I don’t blame him for the choices I’ve made,” and that’s just it, they were his choices, his own, and he’s done running away from his accountability in everything that’s happened.

 _My family tore me down. Garrett built me back up. The way_ he _wanted._

Without Garrett, he’s nothing but his weakness. The weakness that made him feel like he was losing his mind, like there was only one way out. But he’s still the man Garrett made him, he’s still a _survivor_ , and he thinks back to that scared kid in the woods, that terrified, desperate boy in the tent. They’re nothing compared to the cage he’s found himself in now, but this time he’s an asset, he’s a _weapon_ , he’s the monster Garrett always knew he could be, and for a moment, just a moment, he forgets to feel empty.

“For what it’s worth, I believe you can do it,” Garrett told him, once, years ago.

For the first time, Ward begins to believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> "You can't make homes out of human beings" is a line from Warsan Shire's "For Women Who Are Difficult To Love."


End file.
